The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane, or one of the Squares. Others who have done, have found you false. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her. Or else he was indeed obsessed. To my loving husband Rodney, who is truly a dream come true.
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